


The Dark Times

by undernightlight



Series: #ProtectMarkCohen [4]
Category: Rent - Larson
Genre: I love him really, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, idk why I do this to Mark, this is kinda sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 10:59:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14932964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undernightlight/pseuds/undernightlight
Summary: Mark is struggling with life, and what to do with it, in regards to himself that is.





	The Dark Times

**Author's Note:**

> Another Rent fic coming your way. Enjoy!
> 
> TW: This isn't graphic, not really, but it does involve self harm, and Mark does so in this, so if you don't like that sort of stuff, this isn't for you, and there are mentions of suicide. Be safe people.

Mark often felt alone, even when he was surrounded by his friends. Yes, there were his friends, and he knew, and he knew that they'd miss him if...he knew that they'd miss him, but that didn't stop thoughts floating around his head. He could be alone in his bedroom or sat out on the fire escape, or he could be out with them at the Life Cafe or round someone's place drinking and talking, but those thoughts still swirled inside of him.

In the winter, wearing long sleeved shirts and jumpers and jackets and tees makes sense, but in the summer, when it got hotter, the lengthy pieces of fabric annoyed him. He'd get too hot, he'd sweat too much, have to shower more and waste more water. Occasionally, people asked questions: ‘aren't you too warm in that?’ and he'd say no, that he was fine; ‘why don't you wear a t shirt?’ and he'd say it wasn't for him, or that he was too pale and burn too quickly. It wasn't a light, he burned like paper, but it was more than that. He sometimes wished he could wear a t shirt, have short sleeves even if he was just in the apartment, but then Roger would ask questions about the marks on his arm, the red ones, the scabbed ones, the raised ones, the old and faded ones, and Roger would ask what happened and wouldn't leave it alone until he had an answer.

See, Mark knew that. He knew he had people that cared about him, but that didn't stop him from doing what he did. When he was alone, he found himself doing stupid things, things he'd regret later but he didn't care in the moment. And it wasn't the same way of regretting to pay the bills on time, or shoplifting when you were desperate, but it was a different kind of regret. He knew he'd do it again, he knew it'd happen soon and he did it to himself. It didn't help him, not like food would, though, he supposed now he couldn't live without it.

Pathetic, he thought to himself, as he sat on the edge of his bed, his sleeves pushed up above his elbow, with a blade in his hand. It wasn't anything nice, special or sentimental, just a razor blade for a shaving razor he snapped, but it was sharp enough, especially when it was new. His hand shook, he didn't know why but it always did. Maybe that was a sign he shouldn't do it, but he wasn't one of belief in signs from a higher power, or anything even close to that. He thought that his hand shook because he worried too much about getting the lines straight. It was sick, ill adjusted, but Mark couldn't help it, but the lines on his arms had to be straight, parallel to each other as they travelled upwards. He supposed these had to be straight because the ones on his shoulders weren't. They were all wonky and wavy and at strange angles with each other, so he made the ones on his arms straight to balance it out.

Mark drew the metal across his skin. His arm was once translucent there, but over time, the scars remained and darkened the skin, and now his veins weren't so prominent. He found that amusing, in a weird way, even though he was the only one that knew, because when he was younger, he wished to have darker skin, so he could go out and play without turning red within five minutes. The bullying didn't bother him much, not at the time, he was a relatively happy child before he moved to New York, but who would've guessed that this would be the answer to an old childhood wish.

It was cold against his skin, the blade fresh, and it stung like hell, but that didn't stop him, why would it? His body clenched, then relaxed when he drew the edge away. There was blood coming up in little pooling bubbles along the line of red, and he watched them rise. Another cut, another line of red. Another and another. It was one of those things that once he started, he found it hard to just stop. It was always just when it felt enough that he would stop. The number varied from day to day, week to week, and how often he did it varied too. And each time, he'd watch the blood rise. He'd sometimes smear it across his skin, the pools disappearing for a second, before a new one rose to take its place. It'd get messing doing that, and he always had a fear of getting in on the bed or somehow on the door, somewhere Roger would notice, and even though Mark had perfect answers and excuses stored in his head, he worried he'd panic and everything would crumble around him.

Because despite knowing well that these habits were self destructive, he'd build a safe place for himself inside of the habits. He wasn't sure when that happened, when he felt safer in the world of self inflicted pain than in the real world, but that was how it was now. Mark accepted that as an undisputed fact, and no one could tell him otherwise. No one could see how safe this world he build for himself was.

Construction began long ago, some places resembling home in Scarsdale, some places resembling home in New York City, and some places total unfamiliar, only dreams of a place to be, but it was all there, and it was his and he worked to build this. He was safe there.

Mark had to wait for the bleeding to mostly stop. He was clever, if not reckless, but he waited for the bleeding to stop before somehow sneaking into the bathroom and locking the door behind him. He locked the door every time he was in the bathroom, whether for this or for the normal reasons people were usually in there, so nothing was ever strange about it. He'd run the sink and angle his arm as best he could, cleaning them gently. The bleeding would often start back up again if he wasn't careful, which was often, but it would stop shortly after. He was clever and cleaned them out most days, not risking infection because that would only bring more question and answers he couldn’t provide with a straight face. He sat on the edge of the bathtub and he just looked down at his arm, a mess, just like him.

He should stop doing it, he knew that, but the feelings never went away. It would hit him in unpredictable waves. Sometimes they were small, lapping his ankles, just enough to get his feet wet, but not enough to let him drown. Other times they were crashing around him, on top of him, surrounding him and suffocating him. He would be engulfed with no clear way to the surface, no clear way to get air into his lungs again.

It happened more when he was alone, getting so miserable he was unable to function. He’d be sat in his bedroom, or in the living room, or stood on the fire escape looking over the city, and he’d just stare. He’d just be alone and he’d feel every second of loneliness.

He was alone now, as he sat in the bathroom. It hadn’t been a good day, and normally the razor blade would be enough to keep any unwanted feeling at bay for at least until the next day, but it wasn’t that time. He broke down, tears falling silently on to the floor and his socks and his arms and his jumper. It didn’t matter anyway, he told himself.

He’d heard the saying that ‘it’s just because you’ve been strong for too long’, but Mark felt like that wasn’t true in his case. Every other week it was now, where he’d cry in the bathroom when it wasn’t enough, or he’d cry himself to sleep in his bedroom, curled up in layers of fabric to muffle the sounds to those outside his safe little bubble. It was repetitive and it was tedious but he was trapped and he couldn’t see a way out.

He felt surrounded and unable to escape. He wanted to be rid of it all, but he didn’t know how. This kept manifesting in ways he couldn’t control, as much as he tried, he could not control his own mind. His loneliness became this hovering fear of abandonment, and he knew that’s what it was, but he wished it wasn’t. It was inevitable people would leave him, whether through choice or not, through life or death, but in the end, he would remain, and he would have no one. Why was he like this? Why did it have to be like this?

With stiff legs, he stood from the bathtub and walked to his room as quietly as he could. He actually didn’t know if Roger was home, but he’d rather not risk finding out now. He curled into bed. It wasn’t exactly an acceptable time to sleep until the next day, but Mark wanted to do that, to sleep, so he tried, but it seemed to elude him. And just blankly staring at the wall in front of him brought back the feelings he was trying so hard to suppress.

He felt himself spiralling out of control but no way to stop. He felt lost in the dark with no light to follow. He felt himself losing the will to live.

Mark hated that that was how he viewed time now, just how long he managed to keep himself alive. Lack of food and lack of heating were disregarded when he thought about it, that was different, but the blade in his bedside table was considered, so were the pills...He thought about Roger’s AZT pills to take, but that wouldn’t be fair on his friend because then Roger would have to get more, and it’s be such a hassle for him. Mark didn’t even know if the AZT pills could kill him, or how many he’d had to take if they could. He knew very little about the efficient means to take your own life, but that didn’t stop him from contemplating it in times like this. He couldn’t remember when he started having thoughts like that. He couldn’t remember when self harm became the answer to his problems.

He had friends though, people he should be able to talk to, but he couldn’t. They had so much going on, they had their own problems to deal with, so what sort of friend would he be if he burdened them with his problems too? It was different when they unloaded on him; he let them, and they didn’t know what was running around inside his head. If he told them, he’d be forcing them to deal with something that didn’t concern them, when he knew that had their own shit to deal with, and he wouldn’t do that to them. They had to focus on being okay, and he helped them focus.

He also knew that was part of his problem, that he wasn’t spending enough time focusing on what he needed, but the thing was, he didn’t know what he needed. He though he needed comfort, to be surround be his friends, the people he cared about and the people that cared about him, but he quickly realised that wasn’t doing anything. He thought maybe he needed a break from things; he told Roger he was going back up to Scarsdale for a weekend, get out of the city. It took him a good ten minutes to convince Roger that he should stay in New York while he was out of town. He didn’t go to his parents, he couldn’t face them with this thing in his stomach. It was never his plan to go see his parents. He stayed the weekend on the streets, thought that maybe if he was there, then his life would look different from the new perspective, and it did, but Mark still felt terrible. It was a stupid idea, he thought, or it was brilliant, he couldn’t make his mind up, but in the end it didn’t help him. It caused him more problems in the end, because when he returned he had to make up lies about how his parents were and how is brother was doing, and that was all a lot of hassle he didn’t want to deal with.

Mark closed his eyes so tight it hurt. He wasn’t sure why he did it but he did. He didn’t want this anymore, he didn’t...he...

There was a knock on his door, and he sat up. He sat up too quickly, his head spinning and stomach churning. Mark called out, and Roger came in. He asked if everything was alright; “I haven’t see you all day, was just wondering if you were okay?”

And Mark said he was just wasn’t feeling too great; “Oh, I’m just tired, stomach bug, or something like that. I’ll be fine tomorrow, don’t worry.” Roger nodded, and Mark was so out of it, he couldn’t tell if his roommate believed him as he left, shutting the door behind him. Did it really matter if Roger believed him or not, it’s not like he ever asked if he was okay, like, truly okay. He’d ask like that, but he never just said ‘I know something’s wrong, so now will you tell me what it is?’ like Mark would do for him. Roger didn’t know about his habits. Nobody did.

He didn’t mind that people didn’t know. Sometimes he thought about telling one of them, Collins or Roger maybe, but he could never find the right words. In a way, he wished they noticed, that they’d notice when his smile faulted or he didn’t laugh at the stupid jokes, or that they noticed when he curled in on himself. He could feel himself doing it, and most days when he was with them, he could smile, whether it was genuine or an imposter, but there were days when he couldn’t, because he wasn’t strong enough, and he could feel himself withdrawing, and yet they didn’t notice, they didn’t say anything or act. They never just asked him how he was doing.

Thinking about it, he probably would’ve lied anyway, he would’ve said he was fine, just tired. Or if multiple people asked he probably would’ve lashed out, told them to leave him alone, that he was fine and that he could handle himself. He’d gotten pretty good at lying, or bending the truth at least. He smiled a lot more than he was actually happy, laughed at things he didn’t find funny, it was generally just easier to lie than to deal with the hassle of people asking what was wrong. It still would’ve been nice if they noticed something was wrong. It showed him that they clearly didn’t pay as much attention to him as he did to them, that the relationship between him and them was one sided.

Or maybe he was wrong, and they did really care. Maybe they did know, maybe they knew exactly what he was doing but didn’t know how to talk to him about it. He doubted it, but something within him hoped.

To get better the first step is to ask for help. They say if you don’t ask, they you don’t want to get better, that you aren’t genuine and sincere. That was so far from the truth for him. He wanted so much to be happy again, to feel...okay. He wanted nothing more to wake up in the morning and smile because he had another day ahead of him. Instead, he woke with sore arms and legs, and a knot in his stomach, and he knew that none of that would be there if he was dead. He knew that if he was dead, he wouldn’t feel pain and loss and sorry, he wouldn’t feel alone or isolated. He didn’t want to feel like that, not all the time like he does, so would death not be the logical answer?

Mark was not a logical human being. He felt so much, everything so intensely, but he would not let that show; he tried his best not to let that show. Whenever people called him out on it, his seeming inability to feel, he'd cry himself to sleep that night. He was the opposite to what they saw, and that was the way he made it, but he still hated it, he hated it so much.

He stared at the wall, tears dry on his face and pillow, and he just felt defeated. Defeated by the world, his life, his emotions...he had been defeated by himself. Maybe one day soon, he thought, he'd be...brave enough, stupid enough, or would it be smart enough, but maybe one day soon he'd find himself in his bedroom one final time, or the bathroom or the living room, and he would've made sure all the people in his life knew he did care, and that he truly was sorry. Maybe one day soon he'd kill himself, but he wasn't sure. He was never sure anymore.

He didn't want this anymore, he didn't...he...

**Author's Note:**

> A bit...upsetting, I guess, but yeah. This was quite quick to write actually. I've been having a rough time, sort of, and it came kinda naturally. I used some personal experience as well, not all of it though, but yeah, I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> If you're ever struggling, there are people you can talk to. If you live in the UK, there is Childline, as 0800 1111, and it's free to call, and there is online support too. Also, for the UK, there is the Suicide Hotline with Samaritans at 116 123, and for the US at 1-800-273-8255. There are also great online websites to reach out to. Don't suffer in silence, please. Be safe people.


End file.
